


i was down for you hardcore

by provocative_envy (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Getting Together, M/M, Monster of the Week, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’ve never done that.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles stares at him, incredulous. “Seriously?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Derek fidgets. “<b>Seriously</b>,” he says. “There was never any reason to try, okay? Jerking off was jerking off, and I wasn’t going to ask a girl to shove her thumb up my ass while we were fucking.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles makes an exaggerated face. “Shove her thumb—oh, <b>man</b>, are you repressed,” he says mournfully.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was down for you hardcore

* * *

 

Derek Hale slams his forehead against the door of an anonymous bathroom stall in downtown Beacon Hills and _groans_.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you managed to sniff out a fucking sex demon in the middle of a gay club,” Stiles says, peeling back the translucent yellow wrapper of his cheeseburger. “That’s, like—Scott said that it always just smells like pineapple juice and lube in there and he can never find Danny when we need him, so, you know, I’ve always believed that, but—no, no, don’t even say it, Scott just really sucks at werewolfing, doesn’t he?”

Derek takes a decisive bite of his BLT and refuses to blush. “Yes,” he says, not bothering to elaborate.

Stiles chews with his mouth open, freshly-bitten, cherry-red lips flapping noisily as he struggles to speak and swallow at the same time. “And you _destroyed_ that bathroom, man, I don’t even—it kind of looked like that time with the trolls, didn’t it? When they got into your apartment—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek interjects, thinking darkly about shredded bamboo floors and the puddles of bright purple troll blood he’d had to explain to his landlord.

Stiles had laughed for _weeks_.

 

* * *

 

Derek had ventured into the wrong bar—purely by _accident,_ actually, because no one had bothered to tell him that the _Jungle_ was now called the _Menagerie_ and that was one-hundred-percent _not his fault_ , alright? He had seen the ubiquitous neon Corona sign and the bright pink poster that read "Tiger Beat Tuesday!" and decided that it would be _healthy_ and _sane_ and _normal_ to ignore the supernatural shitstorm that was his life and try to socialize with people his own age.

He had not anticipated so much glitter.

Or, for that matter, a slender blond kid wearing nothing but silver spandex shorts to immediately grab his arm and march him towards the tiki-hut bar while cooing about his stubble. After that, there had been a slew of obscene-sounding shots—Fuck in the Graveyard? Dick in the Dirt? Sex on the Beach? _Where the fuck was he?_ —and an attractive, dark-haired guy with red leather pants and _nipple rings_ , Christ, had dragged him onto the dance floor, and then—

 

* * *

 

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles begins, slowly sitting up. He stops. He blinks. He snorts. “ _Straight_. Ha. Get it? Because you’re—”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek snaps, baring his teeth.

Stiles looks unimpressed. “Dude, you came barging into my room at four in the fucking morning asking me to be, like, your bisexual Yoda,” he replies, stifling a yawn. “I’m allowed to mock you. _Gratuitously._ ”

 

* * *

 

Derek’s palms are sweaty.

His throat is raw.

His breath is coming in sharp, short gasps and his shirt is sticking to the smooth, muscled planes of his back and he is having a _crisis_ , okay?

A dick crisis.

A crisis involving his dick.

He glances down at the offending appendage, cringing at the prominent bulge tenting the front of his jeans, and wonders, almost hysterically, what it means.

He does not have _time_ for this.

 

* * *

 

“We’re friends, right?”

Stiles shrugs. “Not really. You’re kind of an asshole.”

“ _You’re_ an asshole,” Derek says mulishly.

“Uh, yeah, I know. That’s part of the reason Danny hates me. Where are you going with this?”

Derek glowers at a straw wrapper that Stiles had folded into an accordion. “How would I know?” Derek asks, voice small. “If I was—gay.”

Stiles hesitates.

 

* * *

 

Derek Hale likes women. Derek Hale likes satin skin and pouty lips and healthy handfuls of firm, round, well-proportioned breasts. He likes the flirtatious scraping tease of lace panties under short skirts. He likes their silky hair. He likes their tiny waists. He likes the soft, sensitive pillows of their inner thighs and the delicate arches of their feet and he has _never_ , not even once, considered that there might be _other things_ to like.

Things like broad shoulders and chiseled jawlines and perfectly manicured treasure trails.

He hadn’t _known_.

He had lived twenty-six years of his life _oblivious_ to the possibility.

 

* * *

 

“You’re being even surlier than usual, dude,” Stiles says now, dunking an onion ring into a flimsy plastic container of ranch dressing. “And your eyebrows look sparkly. What’s up with that?”

Derek slouches in the red vinyl diner seat. “I—I ended up at the bar,” he answers, plucking at a grease-stained napkin, “and there was this guy, with blond hair—”

“Tony,” Stiles says sagely, scooping out a spoonful of cotton-candy milkshake. “Tony’s, like, the _best_ , dude, he held my hands back for me the first time I tried a Blowjob and I didn’t know that, like, the whole point was to get whipped cream on my face.”

Derek very resolutely _does not_ allow himself to picture this. “Right,” he replies in a firm monotone, “Tony.”

 

* * *

 

So _what_ if the sweat-slick ridges of a six-pack have inspired an impressively persistent erection? So _what_ if a large, long-fingered, masculine hand had grabbed his ass and so _what_ if the body attached to that hand had then rolled its hips and instructed him in the filthiest of all filthy whispers to wait for it in the bathroom? So _what_ if he had listened?

It doesn’t matter _what_ , Derek tells himself sternly, because he _is not gay_.

 

* * *

 

“ _What_?” Stiles bleats, thumping his fist against his chest.

Derek slides over a plastic cup of water. “What do you mean, _what_?”

Stiles’s cheeks are flushed. “You—since when are you gay?” he demands.

Derek winces. “I’m not gay.”

Stiles’s eyes widen.

 

* * *

 

Derek feels white-hot panic sear the inside of his chest as he pokes at the hard line of his dick and tries not to breathe through his nose. Why isn’t it going _down_? He’s hyperventilating in a dirty, claustrophobic bathroom that reeks of urine and cheap cologne and cum and _hairspray_ and his dick is _not getting the message_. His eyes keep drifting towards a crudely punched out hole in the metal siding of the stall—around which someone has helpfully drawn cartoon clouds and underlined the words ‘STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN’ in dense black marker—and he _knows_ , okay, he _knows_ what the guy he had danced with is expecting to see when he finally arrives.

Except—

The _problem_ , of course—

 

* * *

 

“Why do you know so much about incubi? Damn it, Stiles, you need to _sleep_ , we’ve _talked_ about this.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose, expression thoughtful. “No, Deaton gave me some books after the whole—” He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “—nogitsune thing. I just, you know, wanted to learn about all the other scary shit that’s out there, and one of the books was kind of like a demon encyclopedia, I guess, and I might have memorized that one, you know, just in case. I know some exorcisms now, too, and I’m getting ordained online as a Universal Life minister so that I can technically call myself a priest—hey, why are you looking at me like that? Those are your sad eyebrows, dude, put those things away, we’re having an upbeat survival dinner and bros don’t let bros wallow in their circumstantial _yet still totally valid_ man pain at upbeat survival dinners.”

Derek glares down at the constellation of bread crumbs littering his plate. The dilemma of his dick possibly being interested in other dicks suddenly seems really fucking trivial, and he wants to ask Stiles about how long he’s been lying, about how many times he’s answered a question with _yes_ or _okay_ or _I’m fine_ and not meant it—but Stiles wouldn’t like that, would evade and deflect and run away because Stiles is a self-sacrificing little shit who can’t handle the indignity of asking for help, ever, which is—honestly, it’s probably for the best. Derek is an insensitive asshole. He suspects that the conversation would end in threats and broken cutlery should he make any attempt at empathy. Stiles wouldn’t appreciate it, anyway. Stiles would prefer to change the subject, or to learn something new and embarrassing about Derek, which—

“I was the unsuspecting twink,” he admits, instead of asking Stiles what’s wrong. “I mean—I was the victim. The chosen victim. Of the incubus. He told me to meet him in the bathroom.”

Stiles chokes on a curly fry.

 

* * *

****

There is a loud, unexpected burst of energetic dance music as the restroom door swings open. Derek listens intently as footsteps approach the stall next to his, but his heartbeat is chaotic, rattling frantically against his ribcage, and he has the zipper of his jeans clutched between his thumb and forefinger before he can fully process that, yeah, he’s going to go through with this.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my— _no_ ,” he states with an emphatic shake of his head. “Nope. My brain is unstable enough as it is, I cannot just go and add ‘ _Derek Hale likes dick_ ’ to my internal Rolodex without expecting catastrophe. _Tsunami_ levels of catastrophe, man. People would _die_. In _bulk_. It would be the _Costco_ of natural disasters.”

Derek is mystified. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

Stiles’s gaze is manic. “I have a _sixty-four ounce_ bottle of mustard in my refrigerator right now, Derek. I’ve had it since _2009_. Because of _Costco_.”

Derek furrows his brow. “Okay?”

“You aren’t gay,” Stiles continues, almost desperately. “Right? _Right_ , Derek?”

Derek’s expression turns furtive. “Of course I’m not.”

Stiles deflates. “Awesome. Because, dude, let me tell you—if you _were_ , Danny would be so, so mad at me. And Danny has _dimples_ , it’s basically _sacrilege_ to make him mad, and he already maybe sort of thinks I’m a homophobic dick, which, for the record, _I am not_ , so. Yeah. Derek Hale. Not gay. _Sweet_.”

Derek fidgets—clears his throat—purses his lips—

 

* * *

****

Derek reasons that it’s a blind blowjob through a glory hole in the back of a remarkably seedy bar. He can pretend that it’s a girl. He can keep his eyes closed and tune out the moaning and maybe just focus on the tight, wet heat of the guy’s mouth, the fluttering tongue as it wraps around the head of his dick and slithers under his foreskin and it will probably be _awesome_ , actually, because the guy will really _know_ what feels good in a way that a girl never could, will know that rough pressure and hard suction and sloppy, saliva-thick slurping feels _incredible_ —

He jerks forward in surprise as a callused hand grips the length of his cock.

“Someone’s a big boy,” a deep voice murmurs through the wall. “Thought you might be. Werewolves usually are.”

 

* * *

****

“Should we get you a choke chain?” Stiles muses. “Or—oh! One of those electric shock collars with the remotes—”

“You’re such an asshole,” Derek says, voice flat. “I don’t know why I hang out with you.”

Stiles grins. “Well,” he replies seriously, “I’d say it’s for my nubile young body, but I’m not an incubus or a serial killer, so I’m probably not your type—”

“ _Such_ an asshole,” Derek says again, shoving him towards the Jeep. “I’m changing my phone number. And moving. Don’t try to find me.”

Stiles jingles his keys. “Dude, you’d miss me _so hard_ ,” he crows. “You’d _pine_ for my presence, okay? You’d write fucking _sonnets_ about our time together and brood until Cora stopped answering your Skype calls—”

 

* * *

 

There is a suspiciously dexterous tongue licking up the side of Derek’s cock, the lukewarm sting of a blunt piercing catching on the rim of his foreskin, a faint purr pulsing up the back of the guy’s throat as he swallows Derek whole—

“Wait,” Derek bleats, lurching backwards, belt buckle clanging as it swings and hits the door of the stall. “Did you just—what are you?”

There is a long-suffering sigh, and then a venomous green eye appears on the other side of the hole. “Guess,” the guy— _monster_?—drawls, sounding interminably bored.

 

* * *

 

Stiles squints at his plate. “So…” he trails off, drumming his fingers on the laminate tabletop. “You followed the incubus to the bathroom? Was it, like, setting a sex trap? Luring an unsuspecting twink back there with its sex wiles?”

“ _Sex wiles_ ,” Derek repeats.

Stiles is undeterred. “Yeah,” he says, getting excited, “you know, like, its— _musk_. And general aesthetic appeal. Hey, did you know that incubi instinctively take on the physical form that will be most attractive to their chosen victims? They’re basically sex chameleons. Isn’t that _awesome_?”

Derek abruptly recalls lean, long legs and brown hair and a wide, teasing smirk—

 

* * *

****

Derek sniffs once, recognizes the potent blend of sulfur, sea salt, and sex, and feels his stomach fucking _twist_.

“Incubus,” he snarls, fingertips prickling with the urge to shift.

 

* * *

 

“Sure there isn’t someone else you’d rather talk about this with, big guy?”

“You’re bi, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but—dude,  _my_ sexuality has nothing to do with yours. And I know we do the mutual life-saving thing every so often, but…we’re not really the type of bros who talk about our feelings together, you know? We’re the type of bros who vindictively let each other bleed out for awhile before we remember we have Band-aids. Our relationship is based on spite and irritation, not trust and mutual respect.”

Derek nods jerkily.

And then Stiles looks like he might actually regret what he just said, like he feels _remorseful_ , like he feels _badly_ about potentially _hurting Derek’s feelings_ —and Derek is suddenly so fucking _done_ , so fucking _angry_ , and his claws are tearing through the vinyl of the diner seat and his eyes are flashing a burning pristine blue in the reflective glass screen of his phone and he is _resentful_ and furious and embarrassed because this stupid fucking kid has his shit together in a way that Derek never will and he managed to _get it_ together while he was fucking _possessed by an evil fox spirit_ and all Derek’s done is get people killed and fuck pretty girls who liked to lie to him and spend the first quarter of his life in _denial_ —

“—the fuck, Derek!”

 

* * *

 

The incubus grins and lowers its fangs, rows and rows of them, off-yellow and sharpened into wicked-looking points.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve never done that.”

Stiles stares at him, incredulous. “Seriously?”

Derek fidgets. “ _Seriously_ ,” he says. “There was never any reason to try, okay? Jerking off was jerking off, and I wasn’t going to ask a girl to shove her thumb up my ass while we were fucking.”

Stiles makes an exaggerated face. “Shove her thumb—oh, _man_ , are you repressed,” he says mournfully.

A flush creeps across the back of Derek’s neck. “Anyway,” he says, voice overloud in the looming silence of the loft, “the answer is obviously no. I don’t know if I like—that.”

“Butt stuff,” Stiles supplies helpfully.

“ _Anal penetration_ ,” Derek interjects with a frown.

Stiles raises his eyebrows but stays quiet. For about a minute. “I don’t really understand why I’m here,” he finally says.

 

* * *

 

“ _Rawr_ ,” the incubus taunts, pretending to growl.

And that—

That’s just fucking it.

Because—of course. _Of course_ Derek can’t even decide to become temporarily bi-curious—or _whatever_ , because, seriously, _he’s not gay_ —without being seduced by an _actual demon from hell._

 _Of course_ .

“I have a pack, you know,” he says.

The incubus snorts. “No,” it corrects snidely, “you have a baby alpha, a banshee, a fox, a _human_ , and a rather worrisome number of dead betas."

 

* * *

 

****

“Oh, my God, dude,” Stiles bursts out, “just stick your finger up there and wiggle it around until it feels good. It’s not that fucking complicated.”

 

* * *

 

Derek freezes—shuts his eyes—sees flashes of blonde hair and dark skin and ruby red lips—

He exhales loudly.

He stretches his neck to the right; to the left.

He dips his chin.

His nostrils flare.

And then he _roars_ , and the bathroom stall fucking collapses.

 

* * *

 

Derek slaps a bottle of water-based organic lubricant into Stiles’s hand.

Stiles’s entire body goes still.

“You _know_ why you’re here,” Derek says, aiming for playful but knowing he’s fucking missed it by a thousand miles because his nerve-endings feel frayed and fraught and _fragile_ in a way they haven’t felt since—

Since.

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles argues, licking his lips. “You can’t just—”

“The incubus looked like you,” Derek confesses, shrugging helplessly. “He looked—just like you. This isn’t…”

He flinches as the ice-maker in his refrigerator whirs to life over in the kitchen; there is a dull, rhythmic clatter as ice cubes start to fall into the tray.

“New,” Stiles finishes for him, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “This isn’t new.”

Derek watches Stiles flip the bottle of lube around, ragged fingernails picking at the plastic shrink-wrapped around the cap.

“No,” Derek breathes out. “It’s not.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
